Steamed (29 page)

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Authors: Jessica Conant-Park,Susan Conant

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Mystery Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Boston (Mass.), #Cooks, #Women Graduate Students

BOOK: Steamed
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He laughed. “Chloe, he
was
my boss. And you don’t leave one of the top restaurants in Boston because you don’t like it. You suck it up and get through your training and put it on your résumé.”
 
I was about ready to beat Josh’s old boss to a bloody pulp for knifing my beau, but I’d probably be kicked out of school for acting in an unprofessional manner. That stupid Social Work Code of Ethics and I were already beginning to clash. Cassie’s arrival with our entrées temporarily cooled off our discussion, but I still wasn’t done with the topic.
 
“Just because you had some asshole treating you like you were going through a fraternity hazing doesn’t make it right. And it doesn’t mean you have to treat Brian the same way. I mean, I know you don’t stick him with a knife while he’s cooking, but maybe you should ease up on him a bit. Positive feedback is a good motivator, too, don’t you think?”
 
My chef smiled at me. “I see your point. You and I are different, I guess. You’d do the right thing.”
 
“You know more about running a kitchen than I do, obviously. And as I’ve learned in my Diversity class readings, different groups have their own rules of behavior and their own cultural norms, and to thrive in a subculture, one must abide by those social laws.” I better get an A on my midterm.
 
We worked our way through two more courses of pleasant but not outstanding food. Josh, however, grew more and more disgruntled with every bite. “This food is ridiculous,” he complained. “Now is the time that they should be putting everything they have into the menu. Serving this crap isn’t going to keep them afloat.” Josh excused himself to talk to Garrett and quickly returned with more bad news. “Garrett is thinking about leaving.”
 
“Really?”
 
“Yup. That’s probably the main reason the menu sucks—Garrett doesn’t care anymore. This place is about to crash and burn in a few weeks. If he leaves, I can’t imagine Tim could stay open much longer. It’d be hard to find a chef to come into this place now, especially with the financial constraints Tim is obviously dealing with. Speaking of which, I wonder why he’s not here now?”
 
“Maybe he doesn’t want to sit around and see how slow it is,” I suggested. “It’s got to be upsetting.”
 
Cassie appeared at the table in time to hear our last exchange. “Actually, he’s out with Madeline right now coming up with schemes to bring some life back into this place. No pun intended. I don’t know what she thinks she can come up with that Tim isn’t doing on his own. So, listen, food is on the house, of course. You two want any coffee or anything?”
 
Essence was starting to depress me, so I shook my head at Josh, and we got ready to leave. Josh left a twenty-five-dollar tip for Cassie, who tried to push his money away. He wouldn’t take it back. “With business the way it is,” he insisted, “you need it.”
 
Josh and I settled into his Xterra. He sighed. “You know what? I’d rather have good competition than have Essence doing so badly.”
 
It was just what Madeline had said on her TV interview: that Magellan needed worthy competition to show how truly great it was.
 
Josh took me home and dropped me off. Dinner at Essence had left us both in foul moods.
 
“Babe, I’m sorry,” Josh apologized as he hugged me good-bye. “I’m grumpy, and I just need to go home.”
 
“Sure. I understand,” I assured him.
 
The food business was losing the aura of glamour I’d envisioned while watching the Food Network, poring over issues of
Gourmet
, and scouring ethnic stores for exotic ingredients. Before meeting Josh, I’d pictured restaurant professionals in a constant state of culinary enthusiasm as they brainstormed fantastic recipes and wooed elite diners with gorgeous decor and tantalizing menus. The restaurant world was rougher and meaner than I’d imagined or hoped. I hated to think where my disillusionment might lead. The aura around Josh still glowed brightly. Was he, too, rougher and meaner than I wanted to believe?
 
SEVENTEEN
 
MY sister Heather was pleased with the unromantic after-math of my dinner with Josh at the gloomy Essence. She’d kept calling to warn me that I was rushing things even more than usual and would scare Josh off. Furthermore, she was convinced that I’d better not sleep with Josh until he was no longer a murder suspect.
 
On the upside, when Heather and I talked on Thursday, she invited me to go to an upscale Boston spa with her on Sunday. Her husband, Ben, was going to watch Walker and Lucy for the day so that Heather could go pamper herself. As far as I was concerned, Heather had it pretty good: big, fancy house in Brookline, adoring husband, two beautiful kids. Meanwhile, the way things were going, Josh and I were apparently doomed to wait until our wedding night to consummate the marriage. I was beginning to feel like a guy: thinking about sex and not much else. Josh was working constantly for the next few days and wouldn’t be off again until Monday. I’d had a few quick calls from him, but with Magellan doing such great business, he had hardly any time to talk. I was planning to go to Magellan after the dinner rush on Saturday night to hang around until he got off work. Then I’d drag him back to my place to do things that would send Naomi into cardiac arrest.
 
Schoolwork was beginning to pile up, and I forced myself to do some serious studying. The amount of reading and research was staggering. I couldn’t believe how many papers I had due all at the same time. Although school had just begun, my professors were already hounding us about starting our midterm papers and preparing for exams.
 
Julie from Group Therapy snagged me on campus to complain about the work and to ask whether I wanted to meet up with her the following week to study. Despite my resistance to spending time on campus, I agreed.
 
“Oh, I’m hosting a toy party tomorrow night, if you want to come. Since you and your chef are getting so close, I figured you might be interested.” Julie smiled and handed me an invitation with her address on it. I doubted that Josh and I were going to make babies any time soon, but I thought I might pick out some things for my niece and nephew.
 
These Tupperware-style parties had gotten totally out of hand in the past few years. I’d been invited to everything from candle parties to organic-household-cleaning-product parties. A shelf in my closet was full of crap I’d bought out of a sense of obligation while attending these events. The salespeople at these gatherings were usually women trying to make extra money, and I always felt I should do my part to support the poor victims who’d gotten roped into what were probably pyramid schemes, possibly illegal ones. Oh, well, what was one more? And I was making a new friend. At social work school, of all places!
 
By the time I got to Julie’s on Friday night, she and her friends were already loaded on dirty martinis and were passing around edible massage oils. How could I have been so stupid? This was not the kind of toy party where there’d be anything suitable for Walker or Lucy. The salesperson, a woman in her forties, was expounding on the benefits of supplementing your sex life with artificial devices. She had a table set up with a variety of items for sale, and her presentation came complete with a real-life male model clad only in a G-string. I downed a drink and tried to make polite conversation with some of Julie’s friends, but they had no interest in talking to me once the model began his demonstration of “stripping for your partner.” His dance routine was surprisingly good. Still, as progressive as I thought I was, when the ring toss began, I made my exit. Julie seemed disappointed that I was leaving, but she handed me a goodie bag, thanked me for coming, and apologized if she’d offended me.
 
I set the alarm clock to wake me at eight on Saturday morning. With an early start, I’d get through so much work that in the evening, when I went to Magellan, I’d be wonderfully relaxed and even more wonderfully ready to lure Josh home. When the alarm went off, I rolled over, slammed my hand on the snooze button, and saw the toy party goodie bag, which was right where I’d dropped it, in the middle of the floor. An hour later, after breakfast and coffee, I was in the middle of deciding which would be a less boring Social Policy paper topic: the failure of Bill Clinton’s health-care reform plan or the bleak future of the United States Social Security system. Inspired by the toy party and the early morning sight of Julie’s parting gift, I’d just concluded that writing anything about Clinton would make the research bearable by giving me an excuse to review the Monica scandal, when the phone rang.
 
I mindlessly picked up without checking caller ID and was punished for my brainlessness by the sound of Phil Rafferty’s voice. “Chloe, Sheryl and I are getting ready to move soon, and we wanted to see you so we could say our good-byes. Are you free to stop over later today?”
 
All right. The time had come to clear up the misunderstanding, and if I chickened out, Julie or Gretchen or one of my other classmates would eventually get me to confess to my cowardice and take me to task for failing to get closure on the episode. I compromised by telling Phil that I’d stop in at around six but would be able to stay only a short time.
 
I spent three hours at the computer Googling Clinton and printed out a bunch of articles on his health-care reform plan, plus a few on Monica and cigars, before taking a break to watch reruns of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
. After that, I resumed my research. When late afternoon finally arrived, I regretted my promise to Phil Rafferty but knew that I’d be rewarded for enduring the visit by getting to go to Magellan later that evening. And I had the spa to look forward to tomorrow.
 
I arrived at the Raffertys’ house at precisely six with a great deal of knowledge about Clinton, health-care reform, and Monica Lewinsky and not a single idea about how to tell the Raffertys that their late son and I had practically been strangers or how to explain why I’d let them go on believing that Eric and I had been madly in love. And how was I going to broach the subject of the family’s finances? I couldn’t just blurt out, “And so, how much money do you two actually have?”
 
Phil answered the door. “Chloe,” he slurred. Damn. Drunk again. “Come in. Come in and sit down.” As he stumbled to the couch in the living room, it occurred to me that inebriation was his version of Monica and that Sheryl Rafferty probably felt the same way about liquor bottles that Hillary Clinton did about cigars.
 
I sat down next to Eric’s father and noticed on the coffee table in front of us a bowl of ice, two large crystal tumblers, and a bottle of whiskey, which seemed to be Phil’s drink of choice.
 
I scooted to the far end of the couch. “So, um, where is Mrs. Rafferty?” It was a surprise to discover an occasion on which I’d be outright eager to see Sheryl.
 
Phil waved his hand carelessly. “Had to go out. She’ll be back later.”
 
Lovely. Much as I hated being stuck there alone with the drunken Phil, I decided that his intoxication was practically an invitation to practice my new interviewing skills to elicit information about Rafferty finances.
 
“Well, so you’re moving soon? That’s exciting, right?” I sounded more weak than professional, probably because I trying to figure out how to confess my falsehoods to this grieving, if repulsive, father.
 
Phil poured drinks for both of us. I thanked him as he handed me a full glass with only two ice cubes. He belched loudly before taking a large swig of his drink.
 
“Look, Mr. Rafferty,” I said, moving swiftly ahead with my agenda, “I know about Eric.”
 
Phil laughed loudly. “You know what?”
 
“I know he was broke and that he owed tons of money.”
 
“And you didn’t leave him, huh? What a doll. Not like that stupid bitch Veronica. She dropped him ’cause of it. But not you.” Without warning, Phil lunged unsteadily at me and, to my horror, buried his head in my neck.
 
For a second, I was paralyzed with disgust and fear, but the feel of his wet tongue on my skin roused me to action, and I succeeded in shoving him forcefully away. “Oh my God! What are you thinking, you big freak?” I sprang off the couch and backed away from Phil Rafferty, who was now slumped in his corner of the couch. What a sicko! With anger ripping through me, I practically barked at Phil. “I was never involved with Eric! I had one blind date with him! One! The night he was killed. I didn’t even know him. I didn’t tell you because I felt sorry for you and Mrs. Rafferty. Your wife, by the way? Remember her?”
 
Phil stared at me in drunken surprise. “You two weren’t . . . ? You didn’t
know
Eric?”
 
Phil’s revolting assault had destroyed my patience and sympathy. With no explanation, I said, “I’m trying to figure out what happened that night. Why he was killed. Now tell me,” I demanded fiercely, “he was broke, right? Were you paying his bills for him?”

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